Archive for the ‘turning into your parents’ Category
Teresa Strasser, Adam Carolla, me
So much to tell. First of all, yes, I am the new news girl on the Adam Carolla Show. I got the word over the weekend but it was a secret which is why I didn’t do my own show on Sunday. I debated and while I knew I would be able to pretend not yet to know I just didn’t delight in the idea of having to lie to my viewers who would be asking if I knew yet, and so I did the next best thing: went sweater shopping.
How’d it go? Fuckloads of static cling is how it went. And then I had that moment of pulling off a sweater and hearing the crackle and looking in the mirror and seeing my hair look like this
and knowing I was in for a painful shock the next time I touched anything metal.
But back to more pressing matters. I’d like to just take this moment to clarify two things no one has really landed upon yet. They both involve today’s podcast.
The moment where we’re talking about my old band and Adam asks the name and I say The Angoras and he says “There’s a sheep and a rabbit?”and then I say, as if I’m some kind of moron, “On my amp?” What I was referring to was our singer’s practice of draping our amps and hardware with plastic animal figurines or stuffed animals when we played live. During the podcast recording we were staring at a photo of me playing live in the band which the producers dug up and there was a pony on my amp, hence my confusion.
And another note about that photo. It was taken in 98 or 99 and I was carrying around a good 30 more pounds, apparently in my legs. Not that it’s important that I issue this disclaimer but I’d just like to start our relationship (the one where I overexplain stuff) on the right shallow foot.
And also, I’m not loving the way my dress looks in the photo of me, Teresa and Adam. Ok done!
Oh wait, another thing I want to make clear. During the audition process I referred to myself as a “polyglot” when discussing my practice of counting to twenty in French and Spanish while I’m at the gym on the treadmill. I was joking! I was not actually bragging about my ability to count to twenty in foreign languages as much as making fun of the idea that that would be something to tout. Did that make sense? I didn’t think so.
Ok, see you guys every day!
A lot of people I know are expecting me to hurt myself on a bike but I totally showed them by hurting myself on a vacuum! It all happened very quickly as I was trying to change the belt. One minute I was huffing and puffing and forcing something, as you’re supposed to do when dealing with machinery, and the next minute I was yelling “ouch!” and holding my thumb and watching the blood pool where a flap of skin used to be—skin that was scrunched up but still attached like a little skin ruffle. It was quite demure and charming.
Now I’ll never be a thumb model! (photo taken during healing)
Being a doctor’s daughter I kept my cool head and suggested I have a seat in the waiting room where I perused Highlights magazine and some outdated issues of Outdoor Living. Then I called my name and asked myself to fill out some paperwork. “Is this really necessary?” I asked? “It’s for our files,” I said while filing my nails. “Whatever,” I mumbled and then took my seat again. Then I counted ceiling tiles. What could be taking me so long? Finally my insurance cleared and I was called in to see myself. After answering a battery of questions which I really don’t think pertained to my thumb injury at all (When was my last menstrual cycle? Any history of pulmonary dysfunction? What’s my favorite color?) I began to get testy. Seeing as I was getting testy, I shot myself with a tranquilizer dart and wheeled myself into the ER. “Let’s save a life” I said, staring at my thumb. Then I washed the cut with soap and water and hopped around because it was stinging and then I very carefully pushed the flap of skin back over the wound, first seasoning it with paprika and putting a pat of butter in there so it would bake to a crisp golden brown. My dad commended me on covering the cut with the skin—”that’s the perfect dressing”—he said, eating a salad. Then I covered it loosely with a bandaid because you shouldn’t cover a cut tightly with a bandaid. Then I jammed my thumb into a wall to see if it was all better. It wasn’t! My God, how long was it going to take to heal? I began to weep because modern medicine had failed me.
Oh, and then I vacuumed the hell out of the two rugs I have in here and I have to say looking around the apartment it was totally worth it.
And now that I’ve semi-cleaned my apartment I feel so much better about everything and considering how much better I feel it’s a wonder that I ever let things get so messy in here. See, I’ve discovered two things. I feel good when my apartment is clean and I’m starving myself. I feel bad when my apartment is messy and I feel fat. So why do I eat twinkies and smear the wrappers on the walls? Gotta stop doing that.
Because I went upstairs wearing sweatpants, socks and a nightgown with a coat thrown hastily over the ensemble to have a word or two with my incredibly loud upstairs neighbor whose mom is away, hence the parties which I’m fairly sure involve drugs and which are quite loud and are driving me nuts. I’m sure of the drugs because the last time I went up there to see if they could possibly not yell at 4 in the morning, the girl who lives there, who’s apparently now consorting with “Chico” said she was just “about to blaze” and wanted to know if I wanted to join. I said no, I just wanted to sleep. Another time she showed up at my door at 10am wanting to know if she could climb through my window because she’d locked herself out of her apartment and she knew of some way to shimmy up the fire escape and into her own bedroom. Cleary she’d done it before when I wasn’t unfortunate enough to live here, back in the days when I lived in an apartment with a dishwasher and doorman and central air and heat and life was good. Have I mentioned I hate this little apartment urchin? I think she’s lived here forever, and at some point tragedy befell the family, and so people put up with her even though it’s well known she’s loud and horrible to live under. Plus: the window shimmying.
So tonight at first inklings of ruckus I shot up there and rang the doorbell. Shirtless be-necklaced “Chico” answered the door, in mid-sizzle (Chico cooks omelettes apparently) and seemed to know before I even opened my mouth what I was coming up about, probably from the look of “I’m going to kill you, I am way too old for this bullshit” on my face. Naturally I softened though, because he looked kind of frightened. We shook hands. I asked if there was a number I could call when they’re too loud so I don’t have to bang on the ceiling with a broom like the unpleasant old lady I’m becoming. He gave me his number. He admitted that he definitely heard the broom racket last night, which begs the question why they didn’t shut the hell up, but whatever. Perhaps he thought I was offering collaborative percussion. Basically I wanted his phone number so I don’t have to call the cops, which I will so totally do, and I wish I’d mentioned that. Apartment urchin was in the shower. I would have preferred her number, but at least now if I want to buy drugs, I’m pretty sure Chico can hook me up (Note: I don’t want to buy drugs. I want to go to sleep.)